


Bride

by LadyAryaBaratheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAryaBaratheon/pseuds/LadyAryaBaratheon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finally finding her way back to herself and to her family, Arya is thrust into a marriage with a newly legitimized young stormlord. Oneshot, though I may add to it later!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bride

Arya opened her eyes slowly. Cold, watery light filtered in through the thick, velvet-lined curtains. It was early enough that Sansa’s minions had yet to descend on her, and she gratefully took the sure to be fleeting moment of privacy to allow a few ragged breaths to heave out of her, muffled by the pillow and the thick, heavy feeling of pressure that had cornered her constantly for these last few months. She peered out of gritty eyes at the clear sky blushing over the tree line, swallowing dryly.

At least it wasn’t snowing on her wedding day.

 

~X~

 

Once Sansa had finished lecturing her on the dark circles beneath her eyes, Arya is stripped of her night clothes and pushed unceremoniously into a bath that smelled suspiciously lemony. Her maids- or rather, Sansa’s spies, to be accurate- had long ago stopped trying to bother befriending her. Once the betrothal had been first announced, and Arya had gone as feral as her wolf, they’d given up trying even to be gentle with her. No matter how much they loved their Lady Sansa, after Arya had knocked out three of Agnys’- at least, she her name was Agnys- teeth while being forced into a bath after she’d had another screaming match with her gracious sister, they’d refused to do their duty unless Sansa herself was present. Arya supposed that was inconvenient for her sister. She didn’t even try to care.

Sinking low in the almost scalding water, she blew air out into the bath, watching the bubbles tickle her nose. She could feel the suspicious stares the maids were giving her as they massaged her scalp with rose cream or some other ridiculous concoction. No thrashing? No oaths to fit to make an Ironborn blush? No overly-descriptive death threats?

They dried her hair and brushed the thick, tangled waves until they gleamed, and piled strands braided with blue roses up on her head, the rest hanging down her back. Sansa had taken all her knives and barred her from the parts of Winterfell that housed anything sharp, knowing Arya would have no problem hacking it all off just for spite. She’d even taken Needle. Already her neck ached from the weight on her head, and the smell of the rose cream slid down her throat sickeningly.

The injustice of it all threatened to rip its way free of her in a roar of rage, but she schooled her expression into a blank page, her eyes empty grey wells reflected back in the mirror as the maids coaxed her hair into lazy ringlets, her sister watching carefully. Just because she’d stopped changing her face didn’t mean Arya had forgotten how to wear a mask.

They rubbed her pale skin with lavender oil and dressed her in frail silky things that made her more uncomfortable than she’d ever been in all of her lives. Arya Stark, lost and found so many times, dressed up in her maidenhead’s shroud.

Next came a dove-grey lace slip with gossamer sleeves that floated around her thin, flat-muscled arms in undulating clouds, shifting with every breath of wind, and then another, longer silk slip that did nothing to still the trembling of her goose pimpled legs. Finally they draped her in something sturdier, a white velvet gown with a neckline much too low for her liking, with roses stitched in silvery thread over the bodice and skirts, trimmed with satin and freshwater pearls at the collar and hem. They gave her silly heeled shoes, as though she was going to a tourney instead of a prison sentence, and Sansa settled the heavy white cloak on her shoulders, the weight sending a sharp stab of longing through her. Never again would she wear a cloak like this, thick, rich, and softer than any touch she'd felt since her father had died and taken her innocence with his head. Soft grey fur brushed her cheeks, and she turned to study the direwolf emblazoned across her shoulders in the mirror, all grey pearls and flashing silver eyes. How she longed for Nymeria, bound in the kennels like a wayward hound.

Once this day ended, she was expected to stop being everything she was. She was expected to stop being a person, expected to give up everything she’d barely begun to believe belonged to her again. After this day, she was an ornament. A breeding mare.

Fury boiled in her stomach. What man had the right to turn her into that? Some Baratheon bastard they had managed to dig up to replace Stannis once he had ended his embarrassing reign on a poisoned arrow? A dragon queen trying to mend a kingdom in tatters by undoing all the wrongs committed by her predecessors? Her sister?

No. No one would do that to her. If she had to get wed, she alone would decide exactly what type of union it would be. Gods help her husband if he tried to force himself on her. He would soon find himself severely lacking in a rather important area.

She sat taller, and straightened her shoulders. He wouldn’t even get to look her in the eye.

 

~X~

 

Arya saw the incredulous look in Sansa’s eyes as she allowed her sister to lead her out of her bedchamber and through the rebuilt castle, pristine corridors echoing with only their hurried footsteps as everyone either prepared for the feast or waiting in the godswood. They made their way to the entry of the wood, and Sansa ushered her into a small, stiflingly hot side room, the windows clouded with steam. Sansa settled herself primly into the chair nearest the fire, and fixed her blue gaze on Arya, motionless by the door. She could run, if she wanted to. They would catch her, of course, but the disgrace would be pleasantly satisfying. She had considered it many times, but Arya would not flee like a coward in the night, slipping away in to the dark, icy shadows. What she hated most about this new husband she was to have was that he meant to take her away from everything she held dear, everything she had barely begun to call hers again. What would she gain, then, from running? She would still lose Winterfell. And to keep running, she would once more have to lose herself. Arya would not do that ever again. She would not run.

The firelight flickered in her mother’s eyes in Sansa’s face, and Arya heard the drums and pipes drifting eerily into the silent room.

“Are you ready?” Sansa asked her softly, her eyes concerned over her maids as they poured tea for her bride.

Arya looked at her steadily. Sansa was as beautiful as ever; more so than Arya could ever be. She wore Tully colours, a deep blue lamb’s wool gown trimmed with smooth red satin, sapphires scattered across her bodice and twisted into her rich auburn curls, dripping about her slender white neck. Arya’s hands twitched, itching to fasten around the graceful, snowy column.

“Does it matter?” She replied, her voice cold and disinterested, eyes drifting from her sister’s face. She had spat and shrieked and threatened Sansa over the last few weeks, growing more desperate as the wedding day inched inevitably closer. It had made no difference, and now there was no time left. She swallowed hard, and straightened her back. She would not break.

Sansa’s eyes were hurt, the deep blue pools pleading with Arya mournfully.

“I know this is hard, especially for you. But this could be much, much worse, and almost was. It is no Ramsay Snow you go to; he is young and handsome and kind. He will treat you well. He will love you, if you let him. You will be happy, I swear it.”

Sansa kept talking, but Arya was no longer paying attention. Her sister could spin as many gilded tales as she wanted; it was no matter. Arya’s life as she had lived it, survived it, was over, and Sansa was as much to blame as anyone else. She was the one who had plotted with the Targaryen conquerer and the onion knight and her former husband, the last lion standing. A marriage to heal the rift between stag and direwolf, to bind the north and the stormlands together after all that had severed them. Sansa was promised to the heir of the Vale, so it was Arya who was offered up like a lamb for the sacrifice, no choice, no chance, and no hope. She had faced more horrors than she could count, but never had she dreamed this would be foisted upon her. This was a fear entirely new, one that swords could not bow, no matter how deep they cut.

Arya was roused by her little brother bursting through the door, his hair ruffled and his eyes gleaming.

“It’s time!” Rickon cried, grinning so wide his face looked like to crack. He was ten, and taller than Arya already. Some of the wildness of his wandering years still lingered about him, and most nights he woke screaming, but Arya’s baby brother was healing. She wistfully thought of the loss of not seeing him grow into a man.

Sansa smiled, rising, and crossed the stone floor to smooth down his unruly mop of red curls, so similar to her own, and to the family they had lost. Rickon giddily slipped his skinny arm through Arya’s, and Sansa turned to fix her eyes on her. Her sister studied her with a critical look, and then raised her gaze to meet Arya’s. “You look beautiful.” At her silence, Sansa sighed, and lightly rested her cool hand on Arya’s stiff back.

“Come.”

 

~X~

 

Sansa propelled her out into the mist where the wedding guests waited like veiled ghosts, and though Arya didn’t know their faces, she knew their names. Stout and Slate, the Umbers and the Ryswells, Hornwood men and Cerwyn cousins, and quite possibly the fattest person Arya had ever seen, who could only be Lord Manderly. All of them had wanted her; all of them had wanted Ned’s resurrected little girl. The whole sorry lot had wanted to regain their honour after allowing the North to fall into Roose Bolton’s leech-slick hands. They all wanted to atone for the atrocities committed against Jeyne Poole, dressed up in grey and white and sent to things that had almost driven her insane. They had stood in this very godswood to watch the first “Arya” wed, and now they were here to bear witness for a second time. Arya wondered which of them would have succeeded in the end had Sansa not had a taste for sentiment. What was more fitting than a young stormlord carrying off a wolf maid? That had been what would have saved a kingdom and stopped a war, all those years ago. It pleased the Targaryen queen too; it had been her who legitimized Robert’s bastard so that he could block Stannis’ greyscaled daughter from becoming the face of a new rebellion, pushed forward by her grasping, god-crazed mother. If any of the stormlords had been feeling restless, there was nothing for them now to fight for. Lord Baratheon was loyal to Queen Daenerys, and now he would have a young wife and heirs. Advantageous to all.

Arya hated every single one of them.

The godswood was warm, strange to say. The sharp, frigid winds of winter whipped at the castle daily, and the paths were treacherous with black ice, drifts on dirty snow piled against the walls that had to be shovelled out every morning, though the ash and cinders had been swept clean, and the blackened beams strewn in the courtyards and in the ruined keeps had been cleared away.

Sansa had rebuilt the castle exactly as it had been, the freshly felled timbre still smelling of the wolfswood, wiping away the memory of the scarred, broken thing the ancient seat of the Starks had become. Only the godswood had been unharmed.

Sansa slipped into the crowd of twisted, faceless monsters obscured by the mist and the flickering light of the torches. Arm in arm with Rickon, she passed beneath a stone archway, the mists swirling around Arya’s skirts and her brother’s lanky legs. Arya had spent her childhood in this godswood; here she had lost tree climbing competitions to Bran, had been chased by Robb and Jon, had hidden from from Septa Mordane when she had fought with Sansa. She had played in the hot springs and watched her father sit under the heart tree cleaning Ice, his face solemn after upholding the laws of his father and grandfathers. Never had she seen it like this. Grey and ghostly, with warm mists that drifted over her skin like fingers and whispers that slithered from everywhere and nowhere at once, like the trees were murmuring to each other. Moist breath rose from the hot springs, blinding the windows that peered down at her from the castle.

Rickon clutched her arm as he led her along the meandering path, careful not to trip over the slippery moss or the occasional root thrusting up between the cracked stone. She studied her little brother as he meticulously stepped over a fist-sized rock, legs awkward and unaccustomed to their new length. He still seemed a baby to her, much too young to rule from her father’s seat. Yet hadn’t she been even younger when she killed her first man?

Here and there candles glowed along the path and amongst the vague shapes of the trees, flickering weakly in the soft luminescence of the full moon peeking between the branches overheard. Arya noticed for the first time that there were flower petals scattered along the path and next to the candles, from the same blue roses as the ones in her hair. She restrained herself from rolling her eyes at Sansa’s taste for dramatic flair.

She realised they were nearing the heart tree, and squashed down the panic that rose in her chest. She would not look at him. She would not acknowledge him in the slightest. She didn’t even want to see his face.

Arya had learned a long time ago how to close herself off from the world, how to keep from seeing or hearing things she didn’t want to see or hear. It had been necessary more times than she’d liked during the years she hadn’t had a face. Her throat was dry as she fastened her eyes on the heart tree as it came into view, the bony white branches stretching up, reaching into the dark. A few stubborn blood red leaves still clung to the pale white limbs, whilst the rest lay around the wide white trunk, and floated on the unfrozen surface of the pool like crimson stars in the black night. Arya locked her gaze onto the strange red eyes carved into the face of the weirwood, not intending to look away from it until the ceremony was done. She was vaguely aware of a looming blur of black and gold next to it, but she focused fiercely on attempting to make it disappear from her sight. His size dismayed her, unclear as the image she allowed herself was. He had to be closer to seven feet than six, and muscled like a bull. Her previous bravado was shaken. His wrists had to be thicker than her arms, his hands big enough to wrap all the way around her waist. His bulk would make him slow, though; she could knock him out before he could even lay a finger on her.

“Who comes?” His voice was deep, and slightly hoarse, as though he was nervous. There was something about his voice, something that itched in Arya’s chest. “Who comes before the god?”

“Arya of House Stark comes here to be wed.” Rickon chirped back, his breath stirring the misty air. “A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Me,” the voice answered, growing stronger, more sure of itself. Arya went deep down inside herself, burrowing away from the lights and the mist and the eyes fastened on her face. She didn’t even want his name, didn’t want to hear him lay his ‘claim’ on her.

A few seconds later, Rickon dug his fingers into her arm. “Lady Arya,” he repeated, staring quizzically at her face into her face. “Will you take this man?”

She looked around, no longer entertaining even the wildest hopes of escape. Somehow, she found Sansa in the flickering crowd. Her sister was staring very hard at Arya, her blue eyes unnaturally wide and her mouth pressed into a thin line. It was the face she had used to use when Arya was missing something woefully obvious.

Her throat was dry as she swallowed, but her voice didn’t shake. “I take this man.”

Rickon slipped his arm free of hers, and she kept herself from staggering, raising her chin high as her new husband reached out to take her hand. His fingers were as big as she had feared, but his grip was gentle and cool. They knelt beneath the heart tree for a moment of silent prayer. Arya’s prayer no longer had any names on it; all lay cold in the ground, more than a few by her own hand. She wished for her courage to be a fierce as her wolf, and then they stood, the red face of the heart tree grinning down at them. Her husband undid the clasp of the heavy white cloak Sansa had slipped about her shoulders, and replaced it with a shimmering gold one, the black stag of Baratheon no doubt prancing proudly on her back. Her tried to peer into her eyes as he stooped to fasten the clasp, but she stared determinedly at the wide expanse of his chest, covering in a matching gold tunic slashed with black velvet and what she thought were onyx gems.

And like that, it was done. Her husband bent to scoop her up into his arms, and though Sansa had made sure to prepare her for all the parts of the ceremony, few as they may be, the sudden sensation of the ground disappearing beneath her drew a gasp of surprise from Arya, his strong arms circling around her as though she weighed nothing. He strode though the mists with her, his chest warm and solid at her back, and as the ground rustled with the footsteps of her family following behind them, the musicians started to play once more, strains of “Two Hearts That Beat As One” floating through the cloudy air. She was vaguely aware of her husband whispering something in her ear, his breath tickling at her skin, but she couldn’t hear what he said as the music swelled louder. For that, at least, she was grateful. No words from his could comfort her.

The yard was as frigid as the godswood had been balmy, and Arya felt once more how delicately she was clad. When she shivered, the mass of black and gold around her tightened his hold, pressing her even closer against his chest. Her hair fluttered in the wind, sending sudden wafts of rosy air around them, little strands coming out of her braids and tangling around her face. The suddenly they were in the great hall, which was blessedly warm, and he carried her up to the highest seats on the dais where her father’s chair rested. It was strange to think it belonged to Rickon now. Two great tapestries hung on the wall behind them, a rampant direwolf and a frolicking stag, the silvers and golds seeming to bring the animals to life as they shone in the candlelight.

Her lord husband set her delicately down beside her seat, pride of place next to where he brother ruled from. She studied her shoes resolutely as he hesitated a moment, guests flooding into the hall noisily below them. Then, with a tender gentleness that sent a jolt of surprise through her, he reached out and carefully brushed a stray strand of hair away from her cheek and tucked it back into its braid. He turned hurriedly away to speak to her sister as she climbed to her seat next to them, and Arya sat down quickly and stared in bewilderment at his back, her cheeks colouring without permission.

She raised her head stubbornly as her brother bid the guests to drink in the bride’s honour. “In my lady sister’s children will our two great houses be joined, and everlasting ties wrought!” Rickon cried, raising his goblet as his bannermen roared their approval. He plopped down next to her, grinning from ear to ear.

“I like him!” He exclaimed as a serving girl half-filled his goblet with watered down wine, Sansa eyeing carefully. “You like him too.” Rickon said, smiling slyly at her.

Arya didn’t reply, but she gave her brother a look that replaced his smirk with a blink of confusion. A gesture of false gentleness would not make her a simpering idiot that forgot exactly what was being done to her.

A different song rose up around them as her husband settled himself on her other side, the first dishes of the feast beginning to be served around the hall. Great tureens of carrots and parsnips and squash swimming in butter, creamy potatoes and sweet yams baked in honey, all fresh from Winterfell’s rebuilt Glass Houses. They feasted on huge hunks of meat, ribs charred nearly black and tender suckling pigs that roasted on spits, gorging themselves on pidgeon pies with gravy spilling from plump, flaky crusts, washing it all down with rich wine that never stopped flowing. Arya supposed it all came from the dragon queen, though the first snows had fallen in the south long ago. Usually attacking her food with a ravenous ferocity that broke Sansa’s heart, Arya only managed to force herself to swallow a few bites, the food seeming to get stuck in her throat like clumps of dirt. Tempting as it was to drink herself into oblivion, she avoided the Arbor gold in her goblet as well. She would need her wits about her tonight.

She noticed that her husband had joined her in barely touching his wine. He didn’t speak or touch her again, and she began to wonder what it had been he’d whispered to her as he’d carried her from the godswood. She could feel him looking at her sometimes, but she kept staring blankly out at the hall, listening to the laughs and the shouts and the songs. She picked nervously at the lace in her fluttery sleeves as the evening  wore on, dreading what was to come.

Finally, her little brother climbed to his cheeks once more, his cheeks flushed and his blue eyes sparkling. “My lords and ladies!” He called to the guests, who were growing ever rowdier. “I think it time our newly weds did their duty!” His ears coloured with embarrassment as his high, child’s voice rang out, and Arya could see Sansa smirking at him. Her stomach turned over. She grasped fistfuls of her dress, suddenly wishing the hated thing never had to come off. She had never imagined her own bedding, not like the way she’d heard her sister and Jeyne Poole giggle in whispers about their hopes for their own. But the men stumbling drunkenly towards her were not her father’s men, were not men she knew. She clenched her jaw, deciding whether to fight or to come quietly, with as much dignity as she could manage. She knew which Sansa would prefer, but Arya didn’t particularly care what her sister preferred any more. The first lurching figure had just reached the dais, gravy ground into his fine wool tunic, when the deep voice next to her rumbled out.

“No.” He spoke quietly, but the hall hushed immediately so that his was the only voice to be heard. And again, just like in the godswood, something about it shook her, tugged at her throat. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, m’lords, but I don’t think I can bear the thought of my bride being embarrassed so. I can tell already she’s shy. Look at how she blushes!” The last was met with a chorus of good natured chuckles, but a sideways glance showed Arya the irritation in the swaying mens’ eyes. She wondered why he had bothered sparing her. The bedding was tradition. The relief that rose up in her belly because of his reserved shyness would be nothing to her new husband. Though he had spared her the humiliation, he allowed to ladies of the room the buffet him from the dais and pull at his tunic as they pushed him from the hall with ribald cries. Arya stared in amazement at his broad back, wide shoulders hunched uncomfortably, and wondered what sort of creature he was. He had no reason to show her kindness. It wasn’t as though she’d had any say in the matter of their marriage, as though he needed to win her over. If he was truly kind, he would never have forced this marriage on her, so she supposed that he was trying to lull her into a false sense of security, to make her a sweet, obedient little maid, who would make as little trouble as possible. _He is sorely mistaken_ , she thought as her resolve strengthened. Sansa bid her to rise with a gentle hand on her back, and Arya stood, barely reaching her sister’s shoulder. Sansa guided her from the hall, the crowd of men surrounding them in a huddle of catcalls and shouts of merriment. She saw Harry Hardyng, Sansa’s intended husband, hoist Rickon on to his shoulders, her brother’s skinny legs kicking with his excitement. Though they didn’t try to take her clothes, the hands that seemed to come from nowhere tugged at her hair and swiped at her face, a few going so far as to slap at her back, lower than she liked. She walked fast, her face stony despite the raucous speculations of what was ahead of her that were cried in voices that were slurredthrough the echoing halls of the castle. Sansa smiled cordially, looking elegantly embarrassed, sharing tasteful japes with her betrothed about how he would have to work hard to be more gallant than their new brother at their own wedding. Arya clenched her jaw. _He’s not gallant,_ she thought angrily, _nor noble, nor honourable_. No honourable man would wed an unwilling girl. That was how she knew there were no honourable men left.

Because there had been no stripping her of her wedding finery, Arya’s little party reached newly weds’ bed chamber first, the guests hooting through the door as Sansa bundled her into the room with a peal of bell-like laughter. As soon as the heavy oak door shut, her sister spun to face her, the humour fall from her face like a curtain being drawn back to show darkening skies. Sansa crossed the room quickly and rubbed Arya’s arms, though she wasn’t cold. There was a fire roaring in the grate, and heavy gold curtains obscured the windows, matching the velvet hangings on the bed. Arya stepped out of her stupid shoes, toes aching. Her feet sank into the thick furs covering the flagstone floor, her skin tingling as the numbness bled from her flesh.

“Are you ready?” He sister asked her for the second time that day. This time Arya didn’t deign to reply, turning away instead and looking at the crackling flames rather than at the concern in Sansa’s eyes. “There are robes, if you want to undress. I can help you. Or there’s bread and cheese, you barely ate at the feast.” Her sister turned and paced, shoes clicking where the touched the stone. “I told you he was a good man. He didn’t even make you endure the bedding, which didn’t sit well with his new bannermen. Didn’t I tell you he was kind?” Sansa seemed to be pleading with her, seeking desperately for forgiveness Arya was unwilling to surrender. When she remained silent, Arya heard her sister sigh, and reach for the jug of wine on the stand. She came around to face her again, pressing the cup into her hands.

“Drink this. He will treat you gently, but they say the first is always the hardest.”

Arya shook her head, setting the cup carefully down on the table next to the high backed chair by the fire. Sansa heaved out another heavy sigh, the most unladylike sound she thought she’d ever heard her sister make. She crossed back over the room, taking Arya’s face in her hands, one on each cheek so that she could look nowhere else.

“Are you so set against him? I thought...” She trailed off, blue eyes puzzled. Then her sister blinked, the clouds clearing from her gaze once more, and pressed a kiss to Arya’s forehead. “Good luck, Arya.” Sansa whispered against her skin, and then hurried from the room, leaving her lonlier and more forlorn than ever.

She let her gaze linger on the heavy door as it shut with a disturbing finality. Nothing would be the same after this. The next time she walked out of this room, it could be to leave Winterfell for good, seeing as they planned to journey south soon after the wedding, as long as the weather held. Though she could hear the wind clawing at the shutters of the windows, the last few weeks had been deemed remarkably clear for so far in to winter’s grip. A blessing from the gods for her wedding, said the great ladies that came to wait on her sister with smiles as false and short-lived as Arya knew the calm to truly be. The Starks would endure the winter as they always had, but for her family winter had come a long time ago.

She turned back to the fire, feeling the heat wash across her face anew. She picked up the goblet and quickly poured the contents back into the jug, grasping the heavy silver thing in her left hand. She perched on the edge of the bed nearest the fire, facing away from the door, her feet dangling a few inches above the floor. She knew the women propelling her husband towards the room at that very moment would not leave until they saw him start towards her, so she knew it was no use to hide behind the door and knock him out as he opened it. She’d have to let him get close to her. Her skin rose up in goose flesh despite the heat.

She hadn’t bothered removing her bridal cloak, the iridescent gold satin lying brightly against the duller, topaz-coloured covers on the bed, honey hued furs tossed artfully over the spread. Arya dug the fingers of her other hand into the thick, soft throws, marvelling at Sansa’s attention to detail. Her sister had gone to great lengths to make their Baratheon friend feel at home.

It was then that she heard the first echo of delighted cackles drift into the room. Arya clenched her jaw, tightening her grasp on the goblet. The sound of many stumbling footfalls came closer, and she slid forward until her toes rested on the stone floor, hair pulled from her braids falling over her eyes. The door spilled open, permitting the glee of their audience to flood into the room in all it’s glory. They hooted and whistled and called compliments that made Arya’s cheeks burn, and then the door was pulled shut as she heard steady footsteps slap softly over the flagstones towards her. _No shoes_ , she thought. He was truly, completely naked. Somehow she had never fully accepted that that would actually happen.

She tensed up, but the quiet noises of bare feet on stone veered away from her, towards where Sansa had gestured when she’d told her about the robes. Arya was grateful for his modesty, at least.

She swallowed thickly, shaking the hair out of her face irritatedly. She reached up and pulled at the pins with an aggressive ferocity the act really didn’t require, letting the braids fall from place and tangle haphazardly over her shoulders. The roses tumbled onto her lap and behind her onto the bed inaudibly.

She heard him clear his throat awkwardly, but continued to stare resolutely at the fire, clenching her first around her goblet. “W- Would you like some wine?”

The question hung in the air, the first words spoken directly between them, and without the eyes of everyone he was newly lord over watching. Arya shook her head, and wondered who he had been before they’d made a lord of him. And still, there was that strange feeling when she heard his voice, the same as godswood and the feast. It was like a cold hand reaching into her chest and pulling insistently at the walls that had held her together for years. Why, though? He was a man who could boast to have her entirely in his power. Why should he have yet another hold over her? He was no Joffrey, and she knew he would take no pleasure in hurting her, though he would eventually have to. Arya reminded herself that duty was duty whether honour was involved or not when it came to marriage, especially one such as hers. He would have to do what was expected of him, though it was likely she would be the one worse for wear if he succeeded.

“You look different with long hair.”

The quiet voice came from the other side of the room, and it took her longer than she’d like to admit to process his words. A questioning snap of confusion had just risen to her lips when she flinched at the clatter of smashing porcelain that came from behind her, followed by a muttered oath, and a hurried “Apologies, m’lady!”

And suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

The cold hand in her chest ripped at the walls around her heart, clawing down stone and mortar and vines hundreds of years tall. All at once her throat was tight and again her hair was short and her fingernails were caked with mud as she wrestled with a blue-eyed boy across the floor of a smithy wearing a ripped acorn dress, and there was a disbelieving awe in her eyes as she tried and failed to make herself twist around to look, her thoughts in an incredulous scatter as she tried to comprehend the impossibility of what her suddenly wild, erratic heart whispered to be true.

Because she knew. She _knew_. And she couldn’t move.

He came around and sat on the same side of the bed as her, keeping a respectful distance. Arya’s movements seemed to be as if in water, moving at a sluggish crawl that defied the uneven beat of her heart. Slowly, as her gaze moved upwards, she saw that his feet were pale and cold-looking, toes curled in the soft furs on the floor. His legs were longer, stretched with an uneasy lankiness in front of him. The robe was dark grey and sewn with constellations in blue thread, and underneath it she could see the lines of the muscles in his stomach and the curve of his back, the hard ridges of his arms straining at the soft cotton. Blacksmith’s arms. And still upwards went her stare of disbelief, to the swell of his strong chest, and his broad shoulders, and the clean arch of his neck as he bowed his head to stare into his goblet. His jaw was more defined, the hollows beneath his cheekbones angular and noble without the little puppy fat there’d been in his face when- When she’d last-

But his eyes, those blue eyes that had laughed and teased and drove her to annoyance, his eyes were the _same_ , sombre as he swilled his wine around and around, ringed with dark lashes. Heavy black brows, and then his unruly mop of coal black hair, ruffled as though he’d run his fingers through it.

The goblet slipped from her fingers and bounced loudly across the floor, but she barely noticed the rattle of metal on stone.

“ _Gendry_ ,” She choked out in a hoarse whisper, harsh and jarring in the silence of the room.

And his blue eyes shot up, shocked, timid hope in his gaze as he fastened it on her upturned face.


End file.
